Where the Shadows Fall the Deepest
by Hahren Jezek
Summary: In the blackened heart of The Deep Roads, Hespith longs for oblivion. Shale slips away to do her own personal duty, haunted by memories of a life in a past long forgotten. Together, they grant each other a moment of peace amidst the chaos. One-Shot.


The unfortunate dwarf has run off. The darkspawn pay her no mind—it's a side effect of her tragic condition. It seems that the Warden woman has forgotten little Hespith. It seems that all of the droll companions of mine have forgotten Hespith. That will not do. Though I had no lungs, I find it somewhere inside of me to sigh. Truly, these pink things have the attention span of small rodents.

"Shale?" The Warden woman turns to look back at me, as I have stopped in the middle of the deep roads. My crystals do not shine as brightly after our ordeal with Branka and the Anvil of the Void. I am suffering from thoughts that I do not know how to place—perhaps they are memories of years long since passed, and the small, fleshy body I held before. I do not like the heavy feeling that comes with this place and these thoughts; it reminds me of the moss that grew on my ankles in that blasted village before I was awoken.

"I've dropped one of my crystals," I heave another sigh, shuffling my feet and heaving myself off in the direction we had come. The Warden woman mutters curses from somewhere behind me and stomps in my direction. Perhaps she is trying to rival the way I shake the caverns. She will lose.

"Shale, stop, where are you going?" The pink thing has stepped in front of me now, leaning against my exquisitely carved stomach, heaving with all of the might in her puny form to try and get me to stop plodding forward. I do not. Her miniscule feet slide against the roads as I keep moving back towards the caverns from whence we came. This is important to me, but I do not know this woman well.

"Go with your friends, I will find my crystal," I tell her.

Unfortunately, I had great trouble trying to reach her with my hands, as my arms and chest are both rather large, and sometimes work against each other in these important moments. I stop walking so that the woman will have a chance to get out of my way. She is not my friend, but there is nothing that she has done to warrant me turning her feet into mashed pudding. After several moments, it seems she has finally gotten the hint, and she steps aside, staring up at me with those squishy little eyes. That I was ever in a body of flesh never ceases to amaze me. I am glad that I remember very little of it.

"I'll help you look," She volunteers.

I turn myself to look at her, staring for several moments. I see her eyes flicking over my form, searching for the socket that a crystal is missing from. There is not one to be found, I am too well made for imperfections . To her credit, she says nothing.

"I'll help," she repeats, slightly louder, as though I am deaf.

"No." I say.

Not waiting, I turn back and plod forward again. Our other companions have joined the Warden at this point, each of them murmuring to each other, seeming somewhat concerned. I do not know why it is that they worry. I have torn the arms off of ogres. They should be more concerned about their own pathetic fleshy hides. The Deep Roads are not kind to pink things.

"We'll make camp at the taig we used last time. Meet us there when you're… done…" The Warden called out. Finally, she leaves me to my task, though she knows not what it is. It is better this way. I can only imagine the lecture she would conjure if she knew I planned to trump through the darkest of shadows to find little Hespith. I move my feet forward once more, crushing the petrified skeleton of an unfortunate adventurer as I disappear back into the darkness. I do not need the light of their torches to see the depths of these places. I will find little Hespith. I have not forgotten her.

She has short legs. She cannot have gone far.

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* * *

_First day they come and catch everyone._

She left us to them. She watched from her safe place as their wet, wrinkled hands snatched us up, like fat nugs on feast day. She saw them tear open the throat of my brother. She said that we were close. She said that we would all be able to go home, very soon now. Home. Home smells like molten rock, surface spices, and roasted nug with hazelnuts. I remember home. We all remember home. But we will never go home—they have come for us. Laryn screamed, and they laughed as their hands gripped her breasts. Branka did not come from her safe place. We were taken from ours.

_Second day, they beat us, and eat some for meat._

We are marched like a conquered nation through their bile. The fate of all dwarven nations, I think. We march, and we march, and our eyes grow used to the dark. I close mine so that I do not see them, but still I hear them. I hear them laughing. I hear them yelling. I hear them growling as they take from us another man, mauling him and tearing him open. I hear his yells turn to gurgles as they feast on his insides. We feel him leave us. One by one, they select the ripest of our men, and little by little, they feed. Soon, there are only two of our men left, and they know that they will soon be chosen.

_Third day, the men are all gnawed on again._

They come for Dirk, and he grasps a rock. We scream as he shouts and smashes it into his skull. Again and again, until his brain pudding splatters against my cheek. They laugh, and they come, still. One with the face of my nephew gnaws on Dirk's ankles. His ankles. It is better that he doesn't have a name. It is better if we try to forget him. A tall one licks his brain pudding off of my face, as though it is a sweet treat to taste. I look for Branka, but I do not see her. I feel her close, but I think that she must be far. Jargen stays close to Laryn. He is a good husband, and she was a good wife.

_Fourth day, we wait, and fear for our fate._

Anika, the young mother, has put her babe under her boot and crushed her skull. She says to me that it is for the best, and here, in the dark, I agree. It is a shame that my skull is too dense, and that they took the rocks away from us after Dirk went mad. They have even lined the walls with their bile. They are soft and sticky. Hours, we wait, and they watch us with lidless eyes, staring. Hungry. We are all very, very hungry.

_Fifth day they return, and it's another girl's turn._

Laryn is so beautiful. Her skin is so soft, and her voice enthralling. They come for her when she is hungry enough, and they drag her from her husband, smashing his hands when he does not let go. Laryn, they do not harm. They do not harm any of the women. We are cursed. We can do nothing but watch as they take her into the bile. We do not want to see, but we do.

_Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams._

We have never dreamed. We sleep like the dead, with no sight in our minds, and no new world to explore in the twilight hours. As they spread her legs and open her mouth, and we hear flesh against flesh and muffled screams, we dream. We see Laryn on her back with one of them on her, wrinkled hands digging into her thighs as it thrusts, spewing corruption into her secret place deep inside. I see her choking on another, and her eyes turn to me.

_Seventh day, she grew, as in her mouth they spew._

She hungers now, as they do, and pretty Laryn doesn't mind it when they come for her. She's torn her clothes herself, the blackness spreading inside of her. She stands and she watches us with eyes that never blink, and she smiles. Her finger she crooks at me, and I come closer, watching her take one of them into her mouth. He gags her with it, loving her more fiercely than her husband ever could. Then he screams. Laryn growls, and she chews, but he does not strike her. He cannot strike her.

_Eighth day we hated as she is violated._

Closer and closer she comes to us, letting us watch her as one after another, she takes them inside of her. He skin is loose and her belly grows as each day they seed another monster inside of her. I hear the wet squelch of another beast having his way with her when I sleep. Soon, I never sleep. Her husband cries, and one night, he goes to her, trying to kiss her and love her tenderly and sweetly, as he did before. She tears off his face. At least one of us knows peace.

_Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin._

They struggle to feed her as she swells and grows, shrieking at them and holding her mouth wide, like a deepstalker larvae. They spew more and more, but still they cannot feed her enough. The flesh of her stomach shifts as the demons inside of her move, growing larger and larger, forcing her to balloon to greater sizes to host them. Lovingly, she croons to them, and in the night, she grins, dragging her husband's corpse to her, eating even his bones.

_Now she does feast, as she's become the beast._

But they—my dream spirits, beautiful and perfect souls—they have killed Laryn. I don't hear her screams deep in the night any longer. I hear them walking, filling in the path my dreams have carved through them, but they do not touch me. I am not ripe. I must be larger before they will take me, as they took Laryn. I might like it now. I feel their corruption leaking from my secret place every moment. It will be easy for them when they come. I will leave before they do. I do not want to like it.

I stay in the deepest of shadows, where even they do not come, and I wander down paths I have already forgotten. But, oh! A light, and another dream spirit. She is made of stone, the stone herself! She will come to claim me.

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* * *

Perhaps I did not give little Hespith enough credit. She is a fine example of dwarven stamina. I have walked for what seemed close to the eternity that I will live, but I have finally found her. I do not call out to her—she did not like it when the dwarf named Oghren reminded her of her name. I understand this, I would not like to be reminded of my old name, either. I plod towards her, and she remains standing very still. This is good—I would prefer not to shake down the walls of these caverns chasing after the little chit.

"Stone, come to take me," she smiles. Her teeth are filthy and small. I believe that there is a bit of gristle stuck between them. I take another step forward, and the little dwarf runs to me, thrusting herself against my leg and sobbing with relief.

I do not understand this. Rescue is far too late for her. She knew this when it was the Warden—why has she thrust herself into my care? I push this thought away, and I reach down, grabbing up little Hespith and holding her within the crook of my arm. Her squishy hands pet my stone hide lovingly, and she kisses one of my crystals with reverence. I rather like this change of attitude, as I had grown quite tired of small children running in fear, and of dwarves and humans not knowing how to speak to me—never mind the blasted elf and the delectable qunari.

"Precious Stone, returned to your embrace, I have walked such nightmarish places. I would sleep forever," she urges me, nestling closer, as though I might change my mind and set her down again, some sort of punishment for her unfortunate condition. Though I do not like the fact that she is slimey and sweaty, I resolve to hold her as I feel she needs to be held. I will have the qunari wash my stones and crystals later while I speak with him of battle plans—I know how he likes these things. Turning, I take her back down the paths I have trudged for what feels like hours. The Warden woman and her companions, those who have come down here, also have short legs. With as much as they bicker amongst themselves, I know that they will not travel far.

"I must see Laryn, and Dirk, and my family—my son," Hespith shudders, shivering wildly and staring up at me. I cannot turn my head to look at her directly, but I can sense the urgency in her tone and her expression. I do not quite understand. To my understanding, House Branka in its entirety ventured to this hellish place. She does not have family that did not die within these caverns. I continue to carry her, hoping space between her and the darkspawn will calm her some. For a time, this works, but as she begins to look around and sees the Ortan Taig around her, she thrashes in my arms like a stray cat caught between my ankles.

"No, no no no! Blessed Ancestors, no! Not their faces, do not take me back!" she shrieks. I hold her fast, but stop walking, hoping that the lack of movement will settle her. She sobs and wails, pitching a truly wretched fit.

"Do you not wish to die within Orzammar?" I ask her. At my voice, she stills, staring up at me with eyes that never blink, clouded over and milky with a corruption too deep for any healing to cure. Her head shakes, and she buries her sweaty, grimy-covered face against the hard planes of my chest.

"Return me to the stone, to my ancestors, but do not let them see me. I belong out here, in places forgotten—do this for me," she begs me. She begins to mutter and plead, but I do not hear her words. I feel that I have been here before, holding in my arms a woman of my kind, watching corruption eat her from the inside out, dooming her to a foul and wretched existence as nothing more than breeding stock for darkspawn. Not little Hespith, but another. I do not remember her name. I think this is perhaps for the best, as I recall bright eyes and pretty smiles, loving kisses, and then nothing but screams and a terror that could not be consoled. I will remember her as Green Eyes.

And I will remember Hespith as Hazel Eyes, for it is better for these women not to have names for themselves. The Memories will take down her name, as they took down my own so long ago, but they will not look upon what treachery and insanity have done to the Hespith of Orzammar.

"What shall I tell the Assembly?" I said, thinking that perhaps the Warden woman might like to know what to say. She is so clueless about Dwarven culture and customs—I am surprised none of the guards have killed her yet.

Hespith shudders and clings to me, rubbing her sweat into my stones before she finally grows still and calm, knowing that the end is near to her—so near that she might blink and miss it entirely. She sighs and goes limp, hazel eyes distant from me and everything else.

"Tell them that all of House Branka died out here, trying to uncover something that does not wish to be found," she speaks solemnly, and I feel pity for this pink thing, and regret that I asked her to tell me this. She must see in her mind their faces—all of those lost to her, as I sometimes see faces unbidden in my own mind. I will see Hazel Eyes's face among them now, but from this time, and not Then. Then is a time I hope to never recall.

"Very well. Close your eyes, Little Dwarf, I will return you to the stone." I tell her.

She closes her eyes, perhaps for the first time in many months, and I find it inside of myself to sigh for her. As limp as a dead cat, she hangs in my arms, and I draw her close to me. Closer and closer, harder and harder. The breath leaves her body with a wheeze, and with a final tug to my body, I crush her skull, and little Hespith is finally granted peace.

Ignoring the muck dripping from her corpse, I hobble forward, taking her body along with me to go back to the Warden woman and her pink skinned companions. I find them where they said that they would be, tucked away in a small cave, lit up by a fire. The light magnifies the shadows, and under their prying eyes, I take Hespith's body to the farthest corner and lay her to rest, where she might never be unearthed.

Where the shadows fall the deepest.


End file.
